


All The Miles We've Walked

by helo572



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Domestic, Father-Son Relationship, Platonic Relationships, Sewing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-24
Updated: 2016-11-24
Packaged: 2018-09-01 02:08:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,343
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8603068
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/helo572/pseuds/helo572
Summary: Jesse's shiny new Overwatch-brand boots aren't kind to his socks. Blackwatch Commander Gabriel Reyes, however, is sympathetic.





	

**Author's Note:**

> I am so blessed to be taking part in McReyes week! This is day 1, prompt: domestic. Check out other works or join in the fun at the [McReyes Week 2016 Tumblr](http://mcreyesweek.tumblr.com/)!

Blackwatch Commander Gabriel Reyes is slouched into his seat, long legs curled around the legs of the lounge chair, chin dropped to his chest as he skims his tablet. Lights are almost out, just the little lamp on the side table next to him, the only source of brightness in the dingy little cabin.

 

“Uh, hey, boss.” Jesse stands before him, one hand at his side, the other rubbing at the back of his head. Awaiting judgement from the king. “Got a sec?”

 

Lazily, eyes move from the tablet up to Jesse, mouth set into an unimpressed, tired line. It’s been a long day, a lot of walking, scouting out their current mark in this backwater Indian town. _Talk, then_ , they say.

 

“Y’don’t have any spare socks lyin’ around, do you?”

 

Reyes stares at him for a few short moments, then shaking his head minutely, looks back down at his tablet. “You’re meaning to tell me you didn’t pack enough pairs of socks.” His voice is slow, soft. After all, one of the other conscripted is sleeping in the room across the hall. It’s only their fourth mission featuring Agent Jesse McCree, deadeye extraordinaire, sock misplacer, general pain in Reyes’ ass.

 

Again, Jesse scratches his head, mouth hanging open in deliberation. “Sorta. I mean, uh--” The hand at his side presents a sock to Reyes, who raises his head to stare at it like he’s just been told a terrible joke. There is a hole in the side of it, worn against the side of Jesse’s brand new combat boots. “Holes in all of them, sir,” he explains.

 

Reyes eyes say: _Not my problem_. Yet, with a sigh, he lofts his tablet to one side to discard it on the table next to the lamp. Then he reaches down into his pack sitting at his feet, and pulls out a smaller bag, black and plain. Jesse watches, curious.

 

“Sit down, kid,” grunts the commander. Jesse sits, plopping onto the larger lounge against the other wall. The ancient furniture groans in protest, Jesse wincing as he remembers Rodriguez sleeping in the next room, her first mission, Jesse's fourth. Reyes is talking again, fingers wandering in the black nondescript bag, “Ain’t nobody ever teach you how to fix your own clothes?”

 

The question catches him unawares. “Uh, no. No sir.”

 

“About time you learned.” Out Reyes pulls a needle and thread, along with a yawn that tears out of his mouth. “Saves you having to ask your commander for a pair of fuckin’ socks. You’re lucky I’m soft.”

 

“You ain’t soft,” Jesse immediately retorts, a flap of his hand, indignant. Reyes pauses to eye him through a dark eyebrow, Jesse straightens. “I mean, you’re a stellar commander, sir. Top shit. Better than Deadlock ever gave me, that’s for sure.”

 

Satisfied, Reyes resumes his task, setting his tools on the table next to him. Then, he gestures for Jesse’s sock. The gunslinger hands it to him, chewing the inside of his cheek.

 

“It’s really easy,” Reyes starts, like he’s explained this one hundred times over and nobody has listened to him. So goddamn tired. “Needle is threaded--” He holds up the silver instrument between his fingers, with thread already attached to the end; _here’s one I prepared earlier_. “--it goes in, the thread follows it.”

 

He stabs the sock -- turned inside out -- with the needle, fingers working as if they belong there, not around the grip of a gun. The thread is pulled through, a thin brown stripe that Reyes feeds through the hole.

 

“Then it’s a criss-cross to cover the hole,” he explains.

 

Expert fingers trade the needle to the other side of the hole in Jesse’s sock, pulling the thread tightly across the gap. Again and again, until there’s a stripe the thickness of Jesse’s finger covering half the hole. Jesse’s eyes follow the intricate movement, until he’s looking at Reyes, wondering how much of this man in front of him the world _hasn’t_ seen. Sewing is a different one, especially for this day and age.

 

“Your turn,” Reyes prompts, a nudge out of his thoughts. Accepting the sock, and the needle, Jesse frowns down at his project. Reyes leans back in his chair, crossing his arms over his chest, stifling another yawn. “Follow the pattern,” he instructs. “Just back and forth.”

 

Taking the silver needle into his hand, Jesse pinches his tongue between his teeth, closing one eye to correctly stab the needle through the corner of the hole, like Reyes has done for him already. It doesn’t slide through effortlessly like it did for the commander, he has to give it a bit of a shove.

 

“Good,” puffs Reyes, at the success. It sends an unexpected flare of pride through Jesse’s chest. The commander _has_ praised him before, but in such an intimate space like this, is different. He’s teaching him to fucking _sew_. “Keep goin’ until the whole thing’s covered.”

 

Concentration finds Jesse easily, what with Reyes’ half-lidded, tired eyes on him while he works on threading the needle in and out of the sock. It’s a nice moment’s peace from the energy given to this mission wearing down on them all, and Jesse’s socks. When he looks back up, satisfied with his work, Reyes is almost dozing where he sits. It’s a pang of guilt that Jesse’s keeping him awake makes him set the half-mended sock down to one side, for later, when there’s not better things to be doing.

 

A low rumble stops him halfway to the door where Rodriguez is snoring, “Where you think you’re goin’, kid?” Reyes cracks open an eye to peer at him, Jesse stops. “You don’t leave shit unfinished, not under my roof.”

 

“No offense, boss, but you’re fuckin’ plum tuckered.”

 

Reyes sits up straighter in his chair, as if to illustrate; _No I’m not_. “Come finish your sock, McCree.”

 

Jesse sits back down with a sigh, resists the urge to rub at his eyes. Slowly, Reyes sifts through the sewing bag again, pulling out a larger needle, followed by a ball of yarn. It occurs to Jesse this was in his pack, which means he carries it everywhere, for situations like this. It’s a funny thought, especially one to associate to Reyes, the king of Blackwatch, the pain in Jack Morrison’s ass.

 

“Thread this through the hole first,” instructs Reyes, offering forward the two new instruments. Doing as he’s asked, succeeding on the third try, the commander goes on, “Same shit as the thread, except you’re going underneath the threads you just made. Pass it.”

 

Jesse hands it to him, squinting in the low light as Reyes threads the larger needle under Jesse’s handiwork. There, he loops the existing threads with the new yarn, it’s red and ugly, stark contrast to his new white Overwatch-branded socks.

 

“Closin’ up the holes,” Reyes explains. He lifts his tired eyes to meet Jesse’s, blinking slowly. “Got it?”

 

“Yeah,” responds Jesse, nodding, and takes back the offered project. He sets to work, Reyes leans back in his chair, eyes falling closed.

 

Jesse _almost_ leaves him again, to finish whatever this is in the morning, but he’s smirking a little bit too much when his fist is contained in the sock by his amateur sewing work; it’s a lot better than it was.

 

“Uh, boss, I got it,” he recovers to say, quietly. Gabriel takes a slow, sleep-addled breath, shifting in his chair. “Fuckin’ ugliest sock I’ve seen in a while, mind you, but--”

 

“Show me,” rumbles Reyes.

 

Jesse hands it over, fingers twiddling in anticipation as Reyes’ eyes scan his handiwork. Then, apparently satisfied, he hands it back, settles back into his chair for the third time.

 

“Hit the hay, McCree,” is the order. Jesse jumps to his feet, mended sock exchanged between both of his hands. The sewing equipment is set back on the side table. Then, as he creaks open the dorm door, “You did well, kid. Sleep well.”

 

Jesse falls asleep with two socks on his feet and a smile lingering on his lips.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading!
> 
> Much love goes to Dirtyhands for beta reading!


End file.
